Previously on Calm.
Their parting did not include brushing of lips or hands - only looks of joy brought by the delicious intimacy of a shared secret.
Soft smiles lingered on their reposed faces before they each surrendered to sleep in their solitary beds.
Peace and calm would pervade the still night, they assumed without much thought to the matter.
"Come war and peace, Downton still stands and the Crawleys are still in it."
Singed and sooty, but true. Charles Carson tutted at the thought of Mrs. Levinson's extravagant return to Downton, realizing he was standing in his overcoat and night clothes on the drive at God knows what hour. The fire brigade had just departed, but a few chairs still dotted the drive.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he grimaced as the acrid smell of smoke still lingered in the air. A number of upstairs windows were fully opened now, exchanging air that could have taken life with one that rushed in with chilling, revitalizing speed. Mrs. Hughes is going to have a devil of a time airing out the house for the next few days. His shook his head at the thought of the extra work she would bear with unfathomable grace.
For his part, adrenalin had surged through him from the moment he was awoken from the briefest of slumbers. It carried him forward as he sent the rest of the staff up to the attics while his job, once again, was not yet finished for the night.
He spied a most unkempt footman in his midst. "James, wait one moment. I would like to have a word." The first footman warily regarded the butler, stopping just before the hedge that separated the servant's yard from the stately front entrance.
"Mr. Molesley, when you finish with the chairs, you may secure the front door. Tomorrow will be a long day, so I suggest heading directly to bed after."
"Yes, Mr. Carson," he concluded before motioning for a hall boy to assist with the large chair used by Lady Edith to catch her breath.
Turning on his heel, the gravel crunched under Charles Carson's measured steps towards the bewildered first footman. He surged past him, heading straight for the yard to give the silly flirt a swift dismissal. Despite Mr. Carson's own surprise to be banishing James from the premises before breakfast tomorrow, the footman looked more ashamed than shocked at the whole ordeal. The butler brokered no arguments with the lad, sending him to the attics in short order with the assurance that a reference would be waiting for him before he should be on his way that morning. With his tail tucked between his legs, James retreated to the indoors to regroup and pack his things. A different, perhaps better future was on the way for the lad, although it probably didn't feel that way in the chilly atmosphere of the Servant's yard.
For his part, Mr. Carson remained outside, finding the air slightly more clear. The reference letter for James could wait.
His eyelids opened and closed languidly now – his adrenaline nowhere to be found. He had caught but a few minutes of sleep before the ordeal began. While he wasn't old, he certainly didn't feel young as the long night caught up with him. But still, something called to him to reflect upon every step he had made to ensure the safety of the staff, family, guests, and the house itself.
They had planned for moments like this - conducting drills on duller days that drove surly staff members to make snide comments while they thought Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes were out of earshot. They never were, of course.
Something brushed against the tall bushes that separated the yard from the front of the house. Straightening at the sound of a light tread on the gravel path, he turned swiftly towards the opening in the brick wall that led down to the courtyard.
"I would have thought you'd gone up by now, Mrs. Hughes."
She stepped down, crossing towards him standing in the middle of the yard. "I was looking for you, if you must know. Are you alright?"
He sighed, setting the fire torch on the wooden table for a moment. "With one less footman, yes, I will be." Her head tilted at his revelation and he sighed with a raised brow. "His lordship asked me to dismiss James when we were gathered outside a bit ago."
"Heavens!"
"He didn't elaborate on his reasons, but I can only imagine it involved Lady Anstruther."
"Well, James didn't exactly look well-dressed when we were in front of the house earlier."
"Exactly," Mr. Carson responded before shaking his head in disapproval over the whole matter.
"My bet is on him being upstairs. In someone's bedroom," she surmised with a raised eyebrow and knowing look.
His mouth opened, a strangled noise of protest on his tongue. But it wasn't that difficult to imagine. James had not been in his room when the staff headed out of the house, and he wasn't supposed to be helping Thomas with overseeing to the locking up of the house despite being in his livery.
Mrs. Hughes wasn't done sizing up the situation. She thought back to the war. "Ethel didn't receive a reference for being caught out like that."
"As I seem to recall, you unfortunately found indisputable proof of her misdeeds."
"I did. But perhaps his lordship also found indisputable proof for him to request his immediate dismissal. And it doesn't change the fact that Ethel's life was ruined, and James will be getting a reference."
"We don't know exactly what happened with James."
Mrs. Hughes couldn't restrain her unimpressed look, nor did she want to. While they didn't know exactly what happened with James, it wasn't fair – plain and simple.
"If anything, I'm more annoyed for your sake. Once again, you're without a footman."
"Don't remind me," he sighed.
James was going to complicate his morning and his afternoons, for several weeks, he anticipated. Perhaps even for several years, the house would still reel with the departure of each member of the staff. All over the countryside, it was becoming likely that posts were not being filled with a replacement for each lad and lass who left or were dismissed.
Each downstairs pillar that kept houses like Downton standing would be removed, one by one – maid, footman, hall boy, alike. The ones that remained would feel the oppressive weight above them shift, forcing ever greater burdens on the shoulders that remained. His were made of granite, but how he wanted to groan under the weight sometimes. I've gone 'round the bend, he thought with a sigh. Maybe a footman will turn up eventually.
Elsie Hughes pursed her lips at the thought of their work ahead – picking up the tattered pieces after this frantic night. At the sight of a weary and wary Mr. Carson, she chewed her lip and cocked her head as a look of positive endearment took over her features. For his part, Mr. Carson was swaying to stay upright. Dear man. Both desperately needed sleep, yet here they were, alone. They never seemed to have enough of that, she reminded herself. Holding fast to her ruffled blanket, she observed his profile freely.
"Are you alright, Mr. Carson?" Staring off into space, his thoughts had meandered to the point of him nearly forgetting the woman before him.
"It's nothing but a few winks of sleep can fix, Mrs. Hughes." In the last few weeks, he had endeavored to share more with her, exposing his fears about the future more and more. But a tired Charles Carson was not likely to share all that much. Still, a memory from earlier tugged at her.
"Only it felt like I interrupted a dream when I woke you earlier."
He looked down at her slowly, confused by her observation and hesitant expression. He thought back – past the bustling staff about the drive, the fireman bounding up the main staircase as staff brought down priceless works of art and valuable furniture, the shrieking of staff as they descended the Servant's staircases. His eyes closed, and he was transported for a moment.
Humming slightly, his eyes opened wide as he concluded, "It was nothing but a dream, Mrs. Hughes. I'm surprised I managed any by the time you found me."
"Well, it looked as if it was a pleasant dream. I'm sorry I had to wake you." He was bliss itself when she happened upon him, stopping her in her tracks for a moment. He looked years younger – the tension in his face was erased in the moonlight as his lips curled into a sweet, contented smile. How she wished she could have reached for his cheek to feel the growing stubble she would find there. But she was forced to take a different tract – jostling his shoulder to arrest him from whatever pleasant thoughts that had woven their way through his dreams.
Whatever those thoughts were, he didn't seem interested in sharing them at the moment. So, she turned from him then, inspecting the yard in a cursory manner while hiding an enormous yawn. The adrenaline had long since left her. She craved her bed, having never had the opportunity to settle into it before Lady Rose stared banging on every door she could find in the women's quarters. She heard him move behind her, and they both treaded slowly towards the backdoor.
"We were lucky, tonight."
"That we were," she agreed, walking slightly in front of him an extra pace. Once again, she found such solace in the way they complimented each other as professional partners. Though neither had been in great danger, each were eternally grateful to be alive and walking tiredly back into their home.
She had breathed deeply at the thought, relishing the relatively clean air in the courtyard and the fact that she was without a corset. In doing so, the blanket had slipped from her shoulder as she breathed outwards, exposing the upper part of her robe.
Ever the butler, Charles Carson moved to re-secure the blanket over her shoulders. But as his fingers curled around the ruffled fabric to re-secure it, the tops of his fingers traced the long lines of her un-corseted torso. He swallowed. The contraption no longer separated her from him, from the cool night. He tried desperately not to think about this sort of thing, somehow managed to will these thoughts out of him when was a younger man.
But her. Her and this knowing unknown state of theirs conjured up thoughts that couldn't be denied.
Murmuring her thanks, Elsie Hughes moved ahead, seemingly unaware of his halted movements and the sensation she just caused.
But she had felt it. Her body trembled as his long fingers inadvertently sent delicious chills down her spine. It rivaled his earlier touch, caressing her back as she moved past him on the Servant's staircase as the exited the burning Abbey. It had been fleeting, but it had spurred her forward and stuck in her brain. Now she daringly wished he could repeat the movement, lingering longer with his broad hand and long fingers.
That was unlikely, she surmised as she quickly headed through the first door. If he touches me again… Frightened at her own thoughts of what she might do, Elsie Hughes passed through the ante-chamber to the rambling downstairs. She reached for the second handle, not caring of etiquette – only the need to separate herself from the man before her. Her hand curled around the door handle before his low voice caused her to hold fast.
"I was asking you to dance." Her hand unclenched as if she touched a hot handle of a pot on the stove.
Turning, she was dumbstruck with squinted eyes. "What?"
"In my dream, I had just asked you to dance when you woke me."
Her eyes fluttered at the thought. "And what brought that on?"
His mouth opened, unbelieving that he was sharing such an intimate thought. But he continued. "We had just stepped out from a picture in Ripon – there was a band playing in the market square. Not one of those high-spirited tunes, mind – something more dignified."
She smiled softly, diverting her eyes as she did when in thought, when his own orbs overwhelmed her. The safe course, on any other day, would be to stare at her usual looking spot on his person – where a crisp tie could normally be found. But in his haste to fall asleep that evening, Charles Carson failed to fasten two buttons to the top of his nightclothes.
Elsie Hughes swallowed at the sight, desperate not to dwell on his chest and the juncture of his collarbones. She could see silvery hairs, nearly invisible – but not to her, not in this proximity. Her eyes closed to avoid the overwhelming sight.
"Forgive me for keeping you, Mrs. Hughes. You should go to bed. It's been a long night."
She breathed with relief, eternally grateful that he interpreted her closed eyes as fatigue and not something else – something overwhelming, something like runaway desire.
Her voice was a half-octave higher. "You didn't keep me, Mr. Carson. I sought you out. But it has been a trying evening with much to do in the morning."
"Yes. His Lordship and I are supposed to survey possible sites after breakfast," he voiced while reaching for the door himself.
His other hand lingered on her back as they descended the stairs and walked past their dormant offices. The weight of his splayed hand was significant without being oppressive. His hand was warm. Delicious. Innocent yet forbidden, just like the tone of his voice. "I'm glad you found me, even if it meant waking me from a pleasant dream."
"It's what we do, Mr. Carson. We've long prepared for those moments," she reminded warmly and imminently proud of herself for not betraying herself with her voice.
"I know," he murmured. "But talking and doing are different things, are they not?"
"Indeed," she intoned in that crisp way of hers. When she was tired, her brogue became more pronounced. He secretly thrilled to hear it roll off her tongue during their nightcaps after a trying day. "As are dreams and reality."
He removed his hand from her back reluctantly, remembering the letter of reference he needed to write for James. Mr. Carson would be curt in the morning, far more curt than he would likely to be now. He opened the pantry door closest to her sitting room, entering it before turning to find her at the threshold.
He knew it was absurd to do so; knew how hollow his promise would sound after his own distinction between words an action. But words still tumbled from his mouth in a near stutter. "Perha, perhaps we will dance one day."
His discomfort placed them on equal footing. She relaxed, growing more confident at his bashful promise. "Perhaps we will, Mr. Carson. Until then, I'll keep to your vision."
He half-smiled at that, his right cheek tugging with greater ease than in years past. "But it wasn't your dream."
"Perhaps it will be later," she intoned playfully before becoming daring. "Or perhaps it will be reality. Someday."
His eyes widened as he remained silent. His right hand, hidden behind his considerable frame, unclenched and grasped the cool air of his pantry. The urge to place his hand across her back – to feel her body move under his palm and fingers as they circuited around in a waltz – was powerful. But before he could cross to her, to voice unspeakable thoughts and commit undoable deeds, she was already retreating.
"Don't write a novel," she jested while studiously avoiding his partially opened pajamas. "Goodnight, Mr. Carson."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes."
He didn't write a novel, but Charles Carson did hum a waltz played at Lady Rose's ball as he penned his letter.
In their dreams, Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes danced divinely and without interruption.
So, we're more than a few episodes behind canon (not that every single week has given us much to go on - like THIS week - has it?). I do apologize for my tardiness - in the update and my reviews. RL has been quite the bear (*shakes fist* about papers and endless reading assignments).
Let it be known I appreciate every single thought you share. I'd love to hear from you about this one.